


hands

by micasdomain



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Body Worship, Fake AH Crew, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 15:23:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15776808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micasdomain/pseuds/micasdomain
Summary: The muscles acting on the hand can be subdivided into two groups: the extrinsic and intrinsic muscle groups.The extrinsic muscle groups are the long flexors and extensors. They are called extrinsic because the muscle belly is located on the forearm.The intrinsic muscle groups are the thenar (thumb) and hypothenar (little finger) muscles; the interosseous muscles (four dorsally and three volarly) originating between the metacarpal bones; and the lumbrical muscles arising from the deep flexor (and are special because they have no bony origin) to insert on the dorsal extensor hood mechanism.





	hands

his hands. fingers slender but strong, pale and splattered with freckles like god carelessly dropped a paintbrush and flicked paint over his most precious creation. and always bruised, skin turning shades of chartreuse and violet against almost-white skin, leaving badges of "this is where i protected you" against his knuckles. i never needed it, but there they always were. his hands, ready to hurt for me. kill for me.  
his hands, holding a cigarette. or cupped, shaking, around a blunt as the wind snuffed it out after a hard day. smoke dancing through his fingers or sizzling against his damaged skin when he presses the fire into his palm to feel the bite.  
his hands wrapped around a knife or the grip of a gun, shaky but deadly accurate. trigger-happy but always sure in themselves. automatically reloading a pistol, fingers deftly replacing the magazine with a practiced ease. unwavering, sometimes worrisome with their confidence.  
his hands crusted with blood. sometimes with others, but more often his own. red seeping into the cracks in his palms, running down his wrist or between his fingers when he carves a duck into the base of his thumb, stupid and drunk but all of us laughing along.  
his hands, interlocked with mine. pale fingers against tanned. freckles dark against his ghostly skin. always bruised, always ready for a fight. and he fit against me so well, squeezing just too hard to remind me that he's alive when i cant hear his voice over the gunshots or see the glow in his eyes through the darkness.  
pulling me along by those perfect hands, always into the next fight, onto the next adventure.  
i wonder where those hands have been and what they have fought for.


End file.
